5000 Days of Rubble
by EsotericSpell
Summary: "Day 2951: ... I hate everything" A less-than-heroic chronicle of Shepard waiting for rescue. Slightly crackish.
1. Denial

According to some of the devs on Twitter, the epilogue slides take place 10-15 years after the war, and while I'm sure they didn't mean to include Gilligan's Planet and the Breath scene in that estimate, where's the fun in that? I make no promises as to the quality or maturity of Shepard's thoughts – 15 years is a long time, after all.

It's rated T for now despite Shep's potty mouth, but please let me know if you think I should up the rating to M. And to avoid confusion, there is only one Shepard- the gender just doesn't matter and there isn't a simple "Shepard" category.

Additional credit goes to Friends for the direct use of Phoebe's rendition of "My Favourite Things".

* * *

ALLIANCE PERSONELL INDIVIDUAL LOGBOOK

Commander [error:invaliddata] Shepard

Service No: 5293-AC-2826

Previous Entry: [4][16][2179] at Arcturus Station, Arcturus Stream, Milky Way Galaxy

Holy shit, there's a diary on this thing?

[EDIT] [DELETE][NEW]

[NEW ENTRY]

Day 1.

There are no words. How can there be? How can anyone, even the finest wordsmith, describe how I felt, what I felt when I awoke? The pain was—is—immense, but I can take it. Actually, when I woke, I initially felt nothing and feared I'd incurred a spinal injury. But in the next second I felt as though I was a light snack for dull-toothed varren. My relief was immediate, but short-lived. I don't have the medical scans to prove it (damnit I am a marine, I know what wounds look like) but I sustained numerous injuries in the blast or the fall after. Large, ugly burns cover my arms and what parts of my chest not covered by armour. I vaguely remember a chest wound even before the explosion and even though I can't see my face, I know I look like I lost a bar brawl with a krogan.

More important is the destruction around me. I do not know where I am. All I can see is slabs of concrete and metal around me and a blue-grey sky unbroken by clouds above. The visual is similar to the projections of the Citadel, but I seem to recall the Citadel also incurring extensive damage. It is more likely I am on Earth, however far-fetched that sounds.

There are sounds of movement in the distance, but only sounds. I would yell for help, but I must have damaged my vocal chords. I cannot manage much more than a hoarse whisper. I can't move either. My legs are stuffed into a crevice formed by falling debris and I only have one free arm. The other is pinned by a thick metal rod via the remnants of my arm greaves. To remove it, I'd need to take off the whole chest piece.

Even my radio and ear comm is broken. In time, I am su

Day 3.

I lost consciousness part-way through my last entry. If it were not for the counter on my logbook, I would have no way to tell the passage of time. My vision swims. My skin is hot. I worry about infection. Even one open wound could ruin me, and I don't even know how many I have, let alone how severe they are. If help does not arrive soon… well, if help doesn't come soon, nothing will matter anymore.

Day 4.

I am on fire, but I see no fire. I can only feel it. Fire on my skin, in my flesh, in my lungs. Do monsters burn?

Day 6.

This is nice. Peace. The sand is warm, like I imagined it would be, but a cool breeze drifts through occasionally. The water is deep green and clear blue at the same time. It never rains. Best of all, everyone is with me.

I found a sea shell yesterday. It pales in comparison to Mordin's monster, but mine is prettier, so I win. Kasumi "liberated" us some towels from the group down the beach, but the constant presence of Wrex and Grunt keep them and anyone else away. Thane seems especially happy. He likes to pace down the shore, where the water overlaps the sand. I don't understand all his prayers, but I don't need to. Off to the side, Miranda has entered into a sandcastle competition with Kaidan and Ash. Ashley, I can understand, but Kaid and Mir are supposed to be too mature for forts. I'll remember this for the next time either one berates me over my creative pseudonyms for 'cockpit'.

And what would our party be without a bar? Garrus never leaves his barstool, but somehow managed to commandeer all the bendy straws nevertheless. Jacob's more liberal with his stock. I think he charmed the bartender and gets all his for free. Joker tried to teach EDI, Tali, Liara, and Jack (of all people) how to play volleyball, but Legion popped the ball when he tried to serve it and they won't give us another one. Samara and Cortez, oddly, have bonded. They talk often, and sometimes Sam joins them. Vega owns a yellow speedo; calls it a banana hammock, to no one's amusement. Zaeed drug some beat-up lounge chair from out of nowhere and seems to enjoy the view. And, of course, Javik finds everything primitive. I could live like this. Forever.

Day 12.

My dreams of a warm beach were nothing more than that—a dream, a hallucination. Infection set in and I lost all sense of time and place. How I awoke today, I have no idea. Last night I thought I heard scuttling, and then perhaps saw the blinking, beady eyes of a keeper. In light of no other evidence, I am forced to conclude that a keeper ministered the medical aid I needed. It is nonsensical, but there is nothing else. My previous certainty of being on Earth must have been wrong. I am on the Citadel. A keeper has been caring for me and broke the infection that gave me such colourful (peaceful, wonderful) delusions. Is that a blessing, or a curse?

Day 13.

It rained. If I hadn't felt it on my face and drank about half my weight in it, I would be certain I was still hallucinating. There are no drainage systems on the Citadel, there are few windows, and most of the common areas are outdoors because it doesn't rain on the Citadel. It can't rain. They artificially generate a skyline, but they don't bother with proper weather… _But the keeper_—I was so sure—What else would have cared for me, but still left me where I lay?

Day 14.

I'm ignoring the issue of my location. Ignoring it. It is ignored. I will go insane otherwise. The rubble has shifted. I'm still boxed in by metal and slabs, but I have a bit more room to move now. Still not enough to escape, of course, but clotting won't be an issue, at least. One arm is still pinned, and my voice has not returned. Something drops food to my location every night. I am thoroughly sick of ramen.

Day 20.

My injuries are healing well. Chakwas should be happy I'm finally getting all that rest she's been harping for. Don't ask me _how_ the injuries healing, or how the ointment keeps getting applied in the correct dosages. It's one big mystery.

I hear more noises in the distance. Things are louder now. I hear life. _I did it_. I stopped the Reapers. I saved someone, at least.

I don't know if I'm happy or sad. Should I be elated or in mourning? I have no idea the total death toll.

Was it worth it?

Day 21.

Was anything worth it?

Day 28.

Is Hackett alive? My crew? The ground team?

What about the ones I left behind: Miranda, Cortez, Grunt—everyone—are they alive?

Is anyone?

Day 33.

I don't think it was worth it.

Day 45.

It was worth it. It was worth it. It was worth it. It was worth it. It was worth it. It was worth it. It was worth it. It was worth it. It was worth it. It was worth it. It was worth it.

It was worth it.

Day 60.

I should be dead. And for once, I don't mean it from a moral stance. I'm not being self-depreciating. I'm being medically logical. From a bitter combination of dehydration, starvation, infection, and the eternally bad too-much-blood-outside-the-body, I should be dead. But I'm not.

I'm not dehydrated, though close to it. I'm not starved, even though ramen hits only one of the requisite food groups only some of the time. I'm not drowning in pus and fever. I haven't bled out. Maybe it's because I am dead. That would solve the above problems, but this hardly seems like any afterlife I've heard of. I guess every religion was wrong.

Day 61.

Damnit, I was promised sea shells, oceans, and drinks. Not cool, universe.

Day 63.

I don't think I'm dead. It should've been obvious, but I've spent two months doing nothing but thinking. I guess 63 days of solitary musings messes with your head. No one there to argue with you—no one to bounce ideas off of, and you can convince yourself of anything.

Day 70.

A keeper stuck its head over the ledge above my thighs yesterday. Good thing I'm not trying to figure out where I am, or that'd throw a krogan-sized wrench into things.

I told it that I'd need at least 2000mL of water a day and different kinds of food. I described that stupid food pyramid every kid learns in school, though I think I might have confused it with the colours. I'm not sure why I did this, but today the same keeper (at least I think it was the same keeper) dropped a jug of water and a bag of those asari root things that taste like yams. I don't even know anymore.

Day 81.

I will not vomit all over myself. I will not vomit all over myself. _I will not vomit all over myself._

Day 83.

I figured out why I've felt ill lately. My guardian keeper has been pilfering out of dextro-amino stocks. I only realized when it dropped a packet of nuts with the label still on it. I'll explain the difference the next time I see it.

Or maybe I'll just vomit in its general direction and see if it takes the hint.

Day 95.

They've begun cleaning up. I'm not quite sure who "they" are—they sounded turian, but I could be wrong. I still can't see anything but rubble and sky, and the sounds are way off in the distance, but I'm hopeful. It shouldn't be long until I'm discovered.

Day 117.

Day one hundred and seventeen.

I kept thinking to myself that I'd overestimated my sense of time. I ignored the regular passing of dark and light skies. My fingernails weren't growing—it was a trick of the light and wasn't it odd how quickly the last nick on my knuckle healed. Even my guardian keeper was in on the conspiracy—providing me four or five meals a day!

I didn't want to look at my logbook. If I didn't have the actual numbers flashing in front of me, I wouldn't have to face the fact that it's been 22 days and not a single person—being—whatever has come close to my location. I can _hear_ them. The shriek of metal and the grunts of workers sound day and night, yet no one steps close enough to rescue me from this coffin. I'll take anyone at this point. Khalisah Bint Sinan al-Jilani, Conrad Verner, hell, even Udina's undead body could hold out his hand and I'd take it.

Day 139.

Shouldn't be long.

Day 148.

Any day now.

Day 160.

Tomorrow, I'm sure.

Day 175.

I'm in the pit stain, aren't I? Anderson said that they still hadn't rebuilt the Tayseri Ward two years after Sovereign's attack and that was when the galaxy's industrial centres were still intact. Maybe there's someone like me still trapped over there, waiting for rescue. Keep waiting, buddy, I called dibs.

Unless… Unless I'm on Earth. I'd have to be somewhere urban—too much debris for somewhere rural. And people wouldn't just abandon the smoking hole where their home used to be, would they? I mean, spacers would, sure, but—ah, fuck.

Day 196.

I'm going to eat my way out. I'm Commander Shepard, damnit. I can come back from the dead, I can chew through concrete.

Day 205.

I chipped a tooth today and I cried. To save my pride: it was in that order.

Day 221.

I asked for rope. The keeper brought me licorice. I think it's mocking me. Licorice and peach pits do not make for an effective pulley system.

Day 230.

Neither does an empty thermal clip and human hair.

Day 271.

I rubbed a hole through the heel of my boot trying to erode a hole through the rubble. Tomorrow I'll initiate Plan Q: learn biotics through sheer force of will.

Day 300.

I've run out of alphabet. The quarians have 37 characters in theirs. I think I remember most of it.

Day 327.

I'm not sure why I thought I could suck in my stomach enough to slither out, or why I've spent six days trying. There's ten centimeters of room. My ribs hurt.

Day 352.

I'm not giving up. I can see where some might think that I'm giving up, but they're wrong. I'm starting Plan Uy: Reverse psychology. Also called: trick whatever asshole that keeps putting me in these situations into thinking I don't want to get out of here. This better work (or not!). I can think of anything else.

Day 364.

In four hours, I will have been here (still not thinking about my location) for one year. 365 days. 8760 hours. 525600 minutes. 31536000 seconds. It took me an embarrassingly large number of those seconds to calculate those numbers without a properly functioning omnitool.

(After a year, the only thing still working is this stupid diary. I think my omnitool shorted in the explosion, but it's proving ridiculously difficult to fix with only one free hand. Technology these days…)

I told the keeper about the date yesterday, but it only brought me a mushy potato even though I asked for cake. Well, here's to an obnoxiously long, humid year all alone in the rubble, hoping for rescue. And here's to not having to do it again.

Day 730.

Here's to two obnoxiously long, humid years. And here's a giant middle finger too.

Day 762.

I don't know what's going on. They're building some swoopy glass structure off in the distance. I can see vague salarian/asari/possibly vorcha shapes working on it if I tilt my head all the way back and look straight left. It's hideous, but the workers seem pretty excited about it. And I'm still stuck in the fucking rubble.

Day 787.

Swoopy structure is done. It's been painted some light blue/green colour and they've planted those weird pink trees everywhere (I think Ash called them cherry trees?).

So, to recap: two sets of construction crews, a painting team, and a designer and her entourage have managed to complete an entire damn building without looking a few meters down to the piles of destruction and smoking chaos, and oh yeah, _me_.

Day 789.

Whoever's in charge of reconstruction needs to get their head out of their ass.

Oh, hey, that's not nice. They've probably been under a great deal of stress. Rebuilding the galaxy takes work, and I can see their plan of action: take their time, get one area completely reconstructed and refurbished, then move on to the next. Suuuuuure. I'd personally try something else—anything really—like at least sorting through all of the rubble first, see if anything can be reused, collect mementos of the dead, _rescue fucking survivors_. But what do I know of stress? I only slipped out of Earth by a hair, had to figure out a battle plan against giant, metal, near-indestructible space fish, all while reconciling the weight of every single sapient being on my shoulders.

Day 809.

I'm sorry Mr/Mrs Reconstruction Organizer. I'm sorry construction crew. I didn't mean it. Please come back.

Day 821.

Please?

Day 844.

I think they're gone for good. It makes sense they'd focus on the most important areas first, but what's so important about the swoopy thing? What the hell possible purpose could it serve?

Day 873.

I miss coffee.

Day 888.

I'm never getting out of here, am I?

Day 901.

I dreamed I had a conversation with my boot last night. She—it had a feminine voice, so she, I guess—complained about the long working hours. I said there was nothing I could do. Is that how low I've fallen? Even my dreams are boring. Stanley says that's messed up, but what does he know? He's a piece of scrap metal. How much psychology could he know?

Day 935.

I'm not talking to Stanley anymore. He's a fucking jackass. My left cheek is not bigger than my right.

Day 1071.

Stanley apologized. Good. It was getting awkward with me, Stan, and Clarice lying around all day. Honestly. Does Clar have to look so _stony _all the time?

Day 1110.

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, doorbells and sleigh bells and something with mittens, la la la something and noodles with string, these are a few of my favourite things.

Day 1279.

My name is Commander Shepard and this is my favourite store on the Citadel. My name is Commander Shepard and this is my favourite store on the Citadel. My name my namemy name is I don't know my name. You have to know your name. Commander? Yes. No. No. Yes. _Yes. _There it is: _Commander_. I can breathe now. In. Out. In. Out. My name is Commander Shepard and this is my favourite store on the Citadel.

Day 1400.

You'll nevernevernevernever decipher my code, Cerberus scum. I reveal nothing.

Day 1616.

…

I think I went a little crazy there. Let's just ignore this bit when it comes time for the mandatory post-rescue psych evals, shall we?


	2. Anger

Thank you to everyone who reviewed, favourited, and/or followed.

In this installment, I make up anecdotes about the asari, draw a brief reference from Cher (of all places), and apparently have a very immature sense of humor.

* * *

Day 1618.

I'm not sure how I'm back to full mental capacity. If I'm back to full mental capacity. The last thing I remember from when I was lucid was arguing with myself about being on the Citadel or on Earth. I can't let myself slip like that again. I need to find something to do.

Day 1804.

I counted as high as I could until I forgot the number halfway through naming it. I hear numbers in my sleep, in the day, in my head, even when I am sure my lips are not moving. How was this supposed to keep me sane again?

Day 1826.

Today marks five years in this pit. Looking back, I'm not ashamed. I went a little—okay, a lot—crazy for awhile there, but I had some good times too. Like Plan R: Fuck It.

Still, this isn't the way I thought it'd turn out six years ago. Back then, worst case scenario was my death. Provided I lived, I always figured I'd end up as Supreme Overlord or something. Or just plain fucking crazy (jury's still out on that one). Sleeping with stone fishies with only the occasional keeper for company was not on the list at all.

So, in celebration of five damn years, I am reattempting Plan R. Fuck it. I, Commander FirstNameNotImportant Shepard, Saviour of the Fucking Galaxy (patent pending), will be embarking on a massive quest upon the conclusion of this note. I will go deep within myself and shun both society and technology, and I will not stop my meditations until I have been rescued or I attain inner peace. So, inner peace or bust (oh please be bust!).

Day 2783.

If anyone is wondering, all religion is wrong, except for the one that says Inner Peace is a cup of coffee. And it needs to be capitalized, I learned too. It's picky like that. The mug is rusty-orange with several chips knocked out of the side, if you must know. It is large enough to wrap both my hands around it comfortably, and the warmth seeps through my calloused palms. I am at peace even before I take the first sip. Which is lucky because the coffee itself is fucking terrible. Definitely the kind made by Gardner. When I am free, I will find this mug and build a shrine to it.

Day 2784.

The Citadel/Earth/Jupiter/Idon'tevenknow has changed. I'm still in the fucking rubble, but there are more structures in my sight. The sky lights up at night so it is rarely truly dark and I hear chatter often.

I wonder how that guy in the Tayseri Ward is doing. I'm still in the fucking rubble. Yes, that statement does bear repeating.

Day 2790.

A matriarch brought her granddaughter close to my location today. I'm pretty sure they're asari anyway, but I suppose they could just be asari-enthusiasts. Anyway, it sounds like Avina isn't up and running yet because the matriarch lectured the girl, but it was clear from her speech patterns that the speech was read from a script (likely a plaque).

Get this: construction is well underway here (no specific location given, of course) but this damn spot has been left as-is in memory of the Reaper War. Apparently it would invalidate the sacrifice of everyone lost in those years if the galaxy just moved on or you know, rescued the Saviour of the Fucking Aforementioned Galaxy. So this site has been dedicated to the lost and no one, not even the highest politically elite, may enter or disturb the area upon the harshest of penalties.

I want to shoot things.

Day 2807.

I wonder how they've managed to keep the keepers from cleaning up. Whoever solved that problem will be getting my regards. Mark my words.

Day 2919.

Something big's happening. Something soon.

Day 2922.

Eight years.

The number eight is important to the asari (kind of like our ten). I think I remember Samara (or maybe it was Liara?) mentioning that. I guess the galaxy's forgiven the whole "we've had secret Prothean tech all this time" thing (I also guess the galaxy's a hell of a lot more mature than I am) because the asari are still important enough that the galaxy revolves around their important digits. So... the eight year anniversary of the defeat of the Reapers… big party there.

They must have hosted it nearby because I heard most of the speeches and where else but beside the horrible reminder of the Reaper's lack of mercy. Some inspirational stuff (nothing compared to the likes of my speeches, of course). Hackett was there. Lots of mentions of me: my work, my dedication, my eventual sacrifice(s). I'd be touched, but, well_, I'm still in the fucking rubble_.

I heard mentions of a monument, a statue I guess. Some nasally salarian claimed it'd be bigger than the krogan one on the Presidium. It'll be put nearby. Didn't catch what the subject would be, but given the awe "Shepard" inspires, who else would they build a statue of? I hope it includes my Black Widow. I loved that fucking rifle.

Day 2936.

They've almost finished cleaning the space for the memorial statue. It'll be in front of me. I won't even need to twist my head to see it in the distance. If it properly captures my stunningly good looks, I just might forget about the fucking rubble.

Day 2941.

The buzz around me says the statue's almost done. Some turian was shrieking in the distance about deadlines and vandalism so if graffiti's become a problem, the unveiling can't be far away.

Day 2948.

The statue doesn't have to me. I'm not _that_ vain. Anderson did a lot of the work and he is the one who is actually dead… probably. Come to think of it, I never checked for a pulse. Maybe he was just sleeping. Maybe's he's recovered. Maybe he's the first person to survive being shot by Commander Shepard.

In all seriousness (Please, as if he'd survive one of _my_ shots. I kill people just by looking at them) a statue of Anderson would be cool, as long as it wasn't of his "the CIC is not the place for a dance contest" face. I got enough of that en route to Eden Prime, thank you very much.

Day 2950.

Unveiling tomorrow. Lots of speeches, some choir performance, probably a couple film crews (maybe one of the drones will notice me). Should be entertaining, at least.

Day 2951.

The statue's of _that_ boy (Yes, _that one_). A symbolic representation of Earth's sacrifice. I hate everything.

Day 2952.

I thought a surge of rage-induced adrenaline might enable me to life the rubble off. I managed to pull Grunt up onto the platform during the Suicide Mission, so it wasn't such a stupid thought. I don't really need to explain how well that worked, do I?

The kid/Reaper-child/brat stares at me in the distance. His condescending fucking eyes never close.

I'll try again tomorrow.

Day 2959.

I've been shaking in rage for seven days. I can hear every heartbeat clearly and I finally understand what "seeing red" truly means. If this statue stares at me much longer, I'm pretty sure my heart is going to give out.

Day 2980.

I refuse to let that fucking kid kill me. My heart will damn well go on.

Day 2999.

Some anti-human Batarian group vandalized the statue last night. I watched them work, dim shapes moving through the dimmer skyline. They gave the kid an extra set of eyes and drew what I assume is the batarian equivalent of a dick on his forehead.

If I could go back in time, I'd save all of the batarians. All of them.

Day 3013.

They can't quite scrub the dick off the statue boy's face. The faint marks are still there. It makes looking at the thing all day bearable. Almost brings a smile to my face. Take that you megalomaniac, sociopathic fucker. You try to kill us all, we make you a twelve-year-old-bully's dream, you dickhead, dickface, double-balled douche dickallo.

Day 3027.

Ah fuck, I forgot about the Leviathan (Leviathans? Is it an unchanging plural? Are they even called Leviathan? Why do I care?). Have they taken over? Is that why no one's fucking found me yet? If so, consider them on my list.

Day 3034.

Hackett's pretty smart and he likes to shoot things. I'm sure he'll figure something out if the Leviathan/s make trouble.

At the very least he knows what happens when you blow up a relay.

Day 3035.

Wait. Didn't _I_ blow up _all_ the relays?

Day 3042.

I'm still alive. 87% sure of it. So… what the hell happened there?

Day 3047.

Fuck it. I don't care. I'm just going to continue with my plan of flinging rocks at the bratue. Maybe if I throw enough of them someone will investigate.

Day 3057.

When—if—my biographer gets a hold of this tale, I'll just pretend I was attempting to spell out HELP. Sure, it doesn't make any sense, but it probably makes a better chapter than me throwing stones at a statue. That's practically cannibalism.

Day 3058.

"_Practically cannibalism?"_ That was all kinds of stupid. I'm really going to need to scrub these logs when I'm free.

Day 3062.

Ran out of rocks.

Day 3065.

I think my keeper's lost it. It brought me a pair of shorts today. Did it expect me to eat them? I'm not that desperate, so I used the elastic to build a slingshot. As soon as I get something to shoot, dickface is getting a new mark to cry to mommy about.

Day 3070.

Potatoes fly better, but asari noodles make for a bigger spectacle.

Occasionally, I almost feel sorry for the poor sod that has to clean up every day. And then I remember that he or she or it gets to move around whilst cleaning and all feelings of shame fly through the air like plump grapes and smack the stupid stone kid right between the eyes. It's a beautiful cycle.

Day 3072.

Mashed potatoes. Just. Mashed Potatoes. Beautiful.

Day 3105.

You know, I don't think we give the keepers enough credit. They're fascinatingly intelligent creatures, and recent experience has made me re-evaluate my working hypothesis on what the species-now-known-as-Keepers was like. Obviously, they enjoyed fixing monitors, exploding, and melting people in giant vats, but I must now add irritating, freakishly intelligent pieces of shits to that list. Case in point: today my keeper brought me a cake. With a candle and everything. I spent hours trying to figure out what that meant, even scrubbed my logs in case my omnitool's sole working function has gone FUBAR. And then, halfway between trying to count non-existent rings on the concrete, I realized it's my birthday. My forty-first birthday. Today, I am forty-one.

No, I am not aware of the fact that I have spent a fifth of my life in the fucking rubble. Why do you ask?


End file.
